


Starry Night

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, Fluff, Khuzdul, M/M, Plans For The Future, Shy Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:16:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow up to Braids and Crowns. After Aragorn's coronation, Gimli and Legolas find a quiet moment to discuss the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starry Night

By the measure of his kin, Legolas’s life had been short—but by any other reckoning, it had been long and full, long enough to have taught him patience. And yet, as the day of King Elessar’s coronation stretched on, he found his patience being stretched very, very thin. He had promised Gimli that they would speak once the celebrations began to die down, when their long-missed friends had retired to bed. He had underestimated the stamina of Hobbits, and the passion with which Men could throw off their gloomy pessimism when there was cause for celebration. Midnight came and went.

He managed to steal moments with Gimli, of course, but always they were surrounded by Eomer, Merry and Pippen, Eowyn, and the thousand other acquaintances they had managed to pick up during their quests. He tried, once, to pass an hour or two in Aragorn’s company, for the new king had a steady surety that he found soothing, but that turned out to be more difficult than expected. Many people wanted to speak to Gimli; _everyone_ wanted to speak to Aragorn. The two old friends managed a few words of acknowledgement, congratulations, and sympathy in between greetings, but soon Legolas realized that he was not the Elf Aragorn wished to speak to in those moments, and he gracefully retreated so that Aragorn and Arwen could at least attempt to muster a few seconds alone in the middle of the celebrations.

It was a chilly evening, and by the wee hours of the morning most of the parties—on the highest level of the city, at least—had been relegated indoors. Legolas squeezed his way through the throng and found himself standing in the meager gardens of Minas Tirith. It was a garden more of rocks than of trees, he thought, but the air was crisp and clean, and he tilted his head up to catch the wind. The breeze rustled his hair, stirring up the scent of spilled ale and pipeweed, and he grimaced.

“Is the feast not to your taste, princeling?”

Legolas’s head twitched towards the sound in startled delight, and he smiled when he saw the Dwarf, clad in midnight-blue, sitting on a convenient block of white stone. The shadows of the walls rendered him almost completely hidden, but when he stirred, Legolas could see the sparkle in his eye.

“Was there a feast? I had thought it was mostly drinking,” he said lightly.

“Aye, and many would agree with you, I think!” Gimli chuckled.

“Might I join you?”

Gimli patted the space beside him, and Legolas joined him. The seat was cold, but he rested, light as a sparrow, against Gimli’s side, and was warmed. The wind snatched up a lock of Gimli’s hair and brushed it against the Elf’s cheek. It tickled, but he did not move away.

“This is good stone,” Gimli observed, his knuckles rapping against their seat.

“I have heard you remark so before—tell me, _is_ there bad stone? It is of great grief to my people, when we discover bad trees, but they are sadly common. Rot seeps in, or the roots fail to grow as strong as they must to withstand frost and the other enemies of growing things.”

“I understand. No, I would say there is bad stone. Some rocks take longer to form, aye, or are brittle at the beginning, but they will become good if let alone. Or a good stonemason will simply find another use for it. I have heard it argued that some stone is flawed, but the error, I think, is usually in he who crafts it. Fortresses fall because they have not been designed to stand, and it is no use blaming the rock for human error!”

“Human?” Legolas remarked, amused. Gimli snorted.

“Dwarven fortresses do not fall. For proof, you need only look to Moria; the dwarrrows who once inhabited it may be dead, but its halls are as strong as ever. One day, it is said, it will be a living kingdom once more, and those who dwell there will find that little need be rebuilt—excepting the bridge, of course, and the doors. Ach, that was a painful loss.”

“I, too, was saddened to see the doors fall,” Legolas said quietly. “They were the best of our two peoples, I think.”

They were quiet for a moment, and Gimli shifted in his seat.

“But I do not think you came to speak of stone. We have other topics to discuss, do we not?”

“Perhaps we do,” the Elf agreed, as the memory of Gimli’s skin against his lips rose in his mind. “And yet the noise and clash of the celebrations ring in my ears, and I find I cannot concentrate on weighty matters yet. I would have a few moments to delight in your company first, and I had said that I wished to walk with you and learn of stone. Will you walk with me, mellon?”

“I will,” Gimli agreed, though Legolas could see that his friend’s natural restlessness was miffed. Gimli always longed to cut through Elvish aloofness and Mannish bluster. If there was something to be done or said, best let it be done now. He wondered if Gimli did otherwise now in order to appeal to Legolas’s tastes, or if he was rather more Elvish in love—willing to wait, and observe, and enjoy the moments between the words.

He rested his hand on Gimli’s shoulder as they walked, and Gimli reached up to touch the small of his back. Legolas thought of days spent upon Arod’s back, with Gimli’s thumb hooked securely in his belt as they galloped over the rolling hills, and smiled. Then he focused his attention on the present, as Gimli began to tell him about stonework.

He began with the basics—the tools Dwarves used, and the different kinds of stone and where it could be found. When Legolas indicated that he understood, he moved on to how various rocks could be shaped, occasionally pointing out aspects of Minas Tirith, or referencing Erebor and Helm’s Deep, as examples. Legolas was amazed at how tricky it could be—stone! Stone which was unmoving and unliving and unwavering. He quickly lost track of the various terms he was supposed to know, but he listened attentively and marveled at all that Gimli knew, which he had never thought to ask about.

“Dwarves have learned to predict, too, which gems and metals may be found in which regions, although I would be boiled in molten lead if it were discovered that I had told the secret to a son of Thranduil. Suffice to say, it is a fascinating science, and one of the reasons I am so eager to show you the Glittering Caves. Ah, my friend, such splendors as I have never beheld in all my life! And without further study, I cannot begin to understand how they were formed so.”

“I am eager to see them, for no reason but because it brings you joy,” Legolas murmured, and Gimli looked up at him with a wide smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Never have I heard you so moved.”

“I was born in Erid Luin, grew to adulthood in Erebor—and now, in the past year, it seems the whole breadth of Middle Earth has felt the tread of my boots. Of all I have seen, Aglarond is by far the most beautiful. I hope…” He squared his shoulders and looked up at the glistening stars. “I have not said so before. But I hope to appeal to the King Under the Mountain, when I return, and beg a small company of Dwarves to accompany me there and found a new colony.”

Legolas felt his steps slow as he tried to interpret the twisted feeling in his heart. Oh—pride, certainly. He pictured Gimli as a proper Dwarf Lord, his axe at his belt and his beard arrayed with beads of gold as he stood before his people in caves of sparkling stone, and the sight brought him joy. Then he calculated the time it would take to travel between Aglarond and Eryn Lasgalen, and disappointment coursed through him.

“He who would refuse you is a fool.”

“Then let us be grateful, for my sake and Erebor’s, that Thorin Stonehelm is no fool! Whither do you intend to travel, after you have visited your family?”

“I—I had not given it such thought,” Legolas said slowly. “Eryn Lasgalen has always been my home, but…”

“But you will return to Gondor, will you not? To aid in the rebuilding?”

“Yes. I suppose—Ithilien could be a home to me, for a time.  And I would not be averse to seeing Fangorn again.”

“You will shortly,” the Dwarf said with a grim smile. “With me by your side, though I still like it not.”

“Perhaps after that, as well,” he mused. The distance between Fangorn and the Glittering Caves was much easier, he thought with a smile.

Their conversation was halted, then, as they met some Elves on the path. They greeted Legolas politely—and Gimli slightly less so, he noted with embarrassment—and then spoke in Sindarin for a moment, commenting on the stars and the events of the day. Legolas shook them off as quickly as he was able, and led Gimli down a more isolated walk. He had no desire to speak with his people today, and he had had his fill of Men and Hobbits as well.

For the rest of his life, he thought, he could make do with only Gimli. But perhaps that was the wine.

“I have heard much of your tongue these past few months, and it will never cease to sound strange to me,” the Dwarf said, shaking his head, and Legolas pulled himself out of his thoughts to laugh.

“It is not so different from Westron, which Men learned from the Elves. Yet you speak Westron with ease, and do not call it strange.”

“’Tis different enough—and of course I do not call Westron strange, when it is my first tongue!”

At this, Legolas was puzzled.

“Your first tongue? What of the language of Dwarves?”

“Khuzdul, it is called—and Khuzdul we learn second. It is meant to be a secret tongue, unknown by Men or Elves or any being that walks the earth, save Dwarves. It is said that those of the White Council have learned it, and that, in some people’s mind, is bad enough! And so Khuzdul is not spoken of around babes, who might blather on indiscriminately. We learn it properly when we reach our tenth year, and are judged old enough to understand. Aside from a few things, of course, which are not as worrisome. Endearments. Our battle cry.”

“Ah. So my newfound quest to become an ambassador to the Dwarves, and speak like the mountain dwellers, and learn to wield an axe, must be cut short?” Legolas asked with an arch smile. Gimli chuckled and raised a hand to his beard, holding back his shaking lungs.

“Bless me, lad—an axe indeed! Why, you would be cut down before you could see your opponent! Stick to your archery.”

“But I have already learned your war cry! _Baruk khazad, khazad ai-menu_. Am I not doing so well?”

“You are not! Your accent is wretched, and you had best practice, because those are the only words in my tongue you will know. Except—” He stopped abruptly, and Legolas tilted his head.

“Except?”

“I do not wish to bring up… weighty matters, as you dubbed them, if it would unsettle you.”

The words unsettled him almost immediately. Legolas’s breath caught and his heart thrummed like a plucked string. He ducked his head, feeling uncharacteristically shy, and clasped his wrist behind his back.

“I am not averse to discussing them,” he said in a low murmur, inaudible to any but the Dwarf beside him. “The din of the festivities has faded, and your presence has soothed me. Although I wonder what Khuzdul has to do with matters of the heart—rather, matters of two hearts, for I know it must be dear to you.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Gimli look up at him, and beneath his beard his face seemed curiously soft. Legolas turned away, a blush touching his cheeks, and Gimli reached up to rest his knuckles against Legolas’s face.

“Come,” he said. “Let us sit, and speak.”

They found a low wall that offered a splendid view of the city, which seemed nearly to glow in the darkness, but was tucked against an awkward corner of a building and unlikely to be discovered by fellow walkers. Gimli cleared his throat.

“I had not properly considered… there are two words, at least, in Khuzdul that you may be permitted to know, for they are ones that I, and I alone, might give you.”

“What are they?” Legolas asked.

He tilted his head and his hair was silver in the moonlight. His friend looked at him from beneath his heavy brow, his deep mahogany eyes awash with gentleness and uncertainty. While Legolas glowed silver, Gimli was gilded by the warm glow of the torches. Golden lights appeared in his auburn hair, and Legolas reached out to wrap one thick lock around his finger.

“My names,” the Dwarf said simply, and a slight frown creased Legolas’s brow. This was the first he had heard of his companion having more than one, and it puzzled him, for Gimli had never shown any sign of hesitance at making himself known to all and sundry.

“Gimli?”

“Aye, that’s one of them. In my tongue it means _star_ , and it is the name my parents gave me. Like all of my kind, I have another name—rather, a _first_ name, given unto me by my Maker. I knew my name before I knew anything else, and I have kept it secret all my life. Only my mother, my father, and my sister know it. And, if you would accept it, I would give it to you.”

“I would accept it,” Legolas said faintly. “And—and treasure it beyond any star in the sky or diamond in the earth, or leaf in all the forests of Arda. You honor me, my friend.”

Gimli bowed his head solemnly and let out a heavy breath, like a weight was being lifted from his powerful shoulders.

“My name is Kumath,” he said simply.

“Kumath,” Legolas repeated in a whisper. Gimli closed his eyes and trembled slightly, and Legolas’s heart trembled too. “In Westron…?”

“Song.”

He ran his hand through Gimli’s hair and wrapped his arm around his broad shoulders. Gently, he touched his forehead to Gimli’s temple.

“Well you were named, mellon, by your kin and your Maker. A light in the darkness and music in silence.” He touched his lips to the Dwarf’s cheek and felt a happy sigh shudder through him. “I remember when first you spoke to me of the caves—such beauty poured from you, such eloquence that I felt my heart yearn for caves and hard rock as it had never yearned before. I was surprised then, but no longer. You were made for poetry, and I hope evermore that you might live in such a place, and among such companions, as to inspire it.”

“Such is my wish,” Gimli said in his low rumbling voice. He took Legolas’s hand in his and smiled. “And yet all night you have encumbered me, asking me to speak pleasantries or words of craft, rather than the words of love that dwell on my tongue.”

“Speak now, then,” the Elf said with a soft laugh. “And let it never be said that I stifled the song of your heart.”

“You never have,” Gimli murmured, and they kissed again in the glittering moonlight.


End file.
